Only Power
by The Lionhearted Phoenix
Summary: "Feeling inadequate and wishing to prove himself, he developed an (initially theoretical) interest in the Dark Arts. Like many people who feel themselves to be insignificant, even laughable, Quirrell had a latent desire to make the world sit up and notice him." (From Pottermore)


**A/N: Written for the Hogwarts Life Challenge, Stage Four, Part II. Prompt: _Write about any Hogwarts professor._**

 **Only Power**

 _"There is no good and evil, there is only power, and those too weak to seek it."_

Quirinus Quirrell, _Harry Potter and the Philosopher's Stone_ , Chapter Seventeen

" _Ha_! Look at Squirrel run!"

"Go, Squirrel, go!"

Quirinus bolted down the hallway, arms thrown over his head to shield himself from the quills, ink, and books that had been bewitched to barrage him. He burst through the doors of the Entrance Hall, feeling ink splash down onto his hair and robes. As he darted down the sloping lawn, trying to evade the objects, a heavy textbook slammed into his back, and he went tumbling down the hill, fetching up against a tree with enough force to knock the breath out of him.

Laughter reached his ears. Three boys had followed him outside, strutting down the lawn to where he lay, the enchanted objects still beating down on him. The tallest boy in the middle flicked his wand, and the objects fell to the ground. Quirinus scrambled to his feet, wiping ink away from his eyes.

"Feeling a bit squirrelly, Squirrel?" sneered the boy, who had thick blonde hair that fell in perfect waves over his forehead. Quirinus's own hair lay flat and limp on his head no matter what he did to it or how many hours he spent with a wand over it, trying to get it to curl. He supposed he just had to accept that girls would never look at him the way they looked at Cadwallader. Which was unfair, really, considering Cadwallader had the personality of a houseplant.

"That's clever, Cadwallader," Quirinus snapped before he could stop himself. "Come up with that yourself, or did one of your lackeys rack their pea-sized brains for it?"

"Watch it," said another boy, fingering his wand threateningly.

"It's all right, O'Leary," said Cadwallader, advancing towards Quirinus. "So, Squirrel's got a backbone after all." He reached out and yanked Quirinus up by his robes. Quirinus struggled to push him away, but Cadwallader was far taller and much more muscular than Quirinus, and held him easily off the ground. "You think you can talk back to me?" he hissed, his breath hot on Quirinus's face.

"N-no," he managed, feeling his knees knocking together.

Cadwallader sneered. "You're pathetic."

Hot rage surged through Quirinus. Before he could register what he was doing, he had whipped out his wand, pointing it at Cadwallader.

The boys burst into laughter. "Squirrel thinks he can actually fight back!" O'Leary howled, tears spilling from his eyes as he clutched a stitch in his side.

"What are you going to do, hex me?" Cadwallader snorted, shaking Quirinus hard enough that his wand slipped out of his fingers. "I'd like to see you try. I bet you don't even know a single curse, do you, Squirrel?"

Quirinus clenched his jaw, saying nothing, hating Cadwallader with every fiber of his being. Cadwallader grinned and opened his fist, letting Quirinus crumple back to the ground. He spat grass out of his mouth. "That's what I thought," Cadwallader sneered. "O'Leary, Macnair, let's go." The other boys followed him back up the lawn, their laughter carrying on the wind.

Quirinus got to his feet, brushing dirt and grass off his robes. Cadwallader's words rang through his head. _I bet you don't even know a single curse._

 _You'll see_ , he thought furiously. _One day, I'll be better than you could ever be. And then you'll regret ever laying a hand on me._

* * *

A Ravenclaw at heart, the library had always been a sanctuary for Quirinus. He had often hidden from his bullies here, losing himself in the multitude of books that lined the sky-high shelves. In those times, he had searched for books on magical creatures, on simple charms he could master, on magical history and theory. Now, however, he was looking for something quite different.

The sky had turned black, the moon hanging high above, by the time he reached the library. The halls were deserted, with no one around to see him carefully pull out his wand, whispering, " _Alohomora_."

The door gave a soft _click._ He pushed it open, ducking inside quickly, and made a beeline for the restricted section. Another unlocking charm made quick work of the lock, and moments later he was lighting his wand, scanning the spines of the books along the shelves.

The sound of footsteps reached his ears; hastily, he whispered, " _Nox!"_ The light at the end of his wand extinguished, plunging him into darkness. He stood, frozen, as the footsteps grew louder, drawing near. Had he remembered to lock the door to the library? He couldn't remember now.

The footsteps slowed, stopped in front of the doors. Quirinus could just make out the shadow of Apollyon Pringle, the mean-spirited, cold-hearted caretaker. He had been known to flog students for being out of bed at night. If he were to find Quirinus in the restricted section, searching for books on the Dark Arts, Quirinus had no doubt he would be thrown out on his ear before he could get out a word of protest.

Pringle leaned forward, nearly pressing his nose to the frosted glass of the doors. Quirinus flattened himself against the bookshelf, clamping a hand over his mouth to muffle the sound of his breathing. There was a soft shuffling noise; then, miraculously, the footsteps resumed, trailing down the hallway as they receded.

Quirinus let out a long breath; his hands felt clammy, fingers shaking against his wand. He waited a moment longer to make sure Pringle was really gone, then lit his wand and resumed his search.

A half-hour later, Quirinus slipped back out of the library, clutching a stack of books that smelled of moldy leather and old parchment. Staggering slightly under the weight, he hastened back to his common room, keeping to the shadows of the corridors.

* * *

The next few weeks passed in a haze. Each night, Quirinus waited until his dormmates had all gone to sleep, then carefully began to read by wandlight. A simple glamour spell ensured that if his dormmates stumbled across the books, they would look like ordinary textbooks with such dull titles as _The History of Magic in the Sixteenth and Seventeenth Centuries_ and _A Beginner's Guide to Basic Charms_ that they would not care to open them. Quirinus delved deeper and deeper into each book, itching to try out any of the multitude of curses on the next person who shoved him in the hallways.

One particularly grey Tuesday morning found him hurrying to Potions, books clutched to his chest — he had been up late reading _Magick Moste Evile_ and had overslept. As he turned the corner, practically galloping down the corridor, a loud guffaw reached his ears.

"Running late, Squirrel?"

Quirinus grit his teeth and picked up his pace, speeding down the hallway, but his books weighed him down; in a flash of movement, Cadwallader darted in front of him, shoving him back with a careless flick of his wrist. Quirinus went sprawling, books skidding across the stone floors. Cadwallader's laughter rang off the walls, joined by O'Leary's and Macnair's.

Anger shot through Quirinus. He vaulted to his feet, yanked his wand out of his pocket, and pointed it directly at Cadwallader's heart.

"Didn't we go over this, Squirrel?" Cadwallader jeered. "You haven't got the guts to use that. Maybe we should've called you Squib instead."

"Yeah!" Macnair chimed in, cackling. "Squirrel the Squib!"

"I know curses now," Quirinus blurted out. "I can — I can turn you all into cockroaches and squish you under my heel! I can turn you inside out and make your intestines come out of your ears! I can torture you until you wish you were dead!" He was breathing hard, rage thrumming through his veins.

"Yeah?" Cadwallader took a step forward, towering over Quirinus. His heart stuttered in his chest. "I'd like to see you try," Cadwallader breathed.

Quirinus opened his mouth; a thousand incantations flew through his head, but his throat seemed to have closed off. His hand, gripping the wand, was shaking.

Cadwallader shook his head. "When are you going to learn, Squirrel? You're not a fighter. You're just a stupid little bookworm who's never going to amount to anything." He jabbed Quirinus in the chest, and Quirinus's knees gave out, sending him back down to the floor. Snickering, the three boys turned and strode back down the hallway.

Hot tears spilled over onto Quirinus's cheeks. He was shaking with anger, some of it directed at Cadwallader and his lackeys, but most of it directed at himself. He had spent all this time learning all the curses he could, but when it came down to it, Cadwallader was right — he simply didn't have the guts to use them.

 _Fine_ , he thought. _If I can't figure this out on my own, I'll have to find someone to teach me_. He thought of the rumors that had been flying around the school since the night of Halloween, that Lord Voldemort wasn't really dead, that he was simply weakened, hiding until he could gather enough strength to finish Harry Potter once and for all.

 _I will find you_ , Quirinus thought, setting his jaw. _I will find you, and you will give me all the power in the world, and I will never be a victim again._


End file.
